All the King's Horses and all the King's Men
by Lady of The Wind Dweller
Summary: It's Arthur's destiny to be the greatest King the world has ever known, but it's Arthur's destiny to be more than a King at the same time. Here is my version of the story, in a way none have imagined before. Warning: slash( Merthur).


**A/N: I know, I know! What am I doing, posting another story when I already have one in progress? I just couldn't helpt myself! This plot bunny has been slowly driving me insane, so I had to do something. I promise I'll make up a schedule and I will not neglect either of the stories.**

**Oh, the pairing will be Arthur/Merlin, but don't expect for the romance to just jump up, out of nowhere. It'll be a slow progress and, hopefully, a long story. Oh..but when the romance does start, expect explicit smut, I'll try to warn at the beginning of every chapter which will contain explicit themes but I may forget so, be warned :D.**

**I've done some research in stuff about the Middle Ages for this story, but nothing too serious, obviously, I'm not an expert. Uther's pledge at the end is COMPLETELY from my head so I don't know if it's completely ridiculous but I couldn't find anything on the internet so I..improvised.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin etc etc**

**English isn't my first language, no beta so yeah: mistakes ( feel free to correct me ! ) Hope you like it.**

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**_PROLOGUE_**

Some say that our destiny is written on our forehead from the day we've been brought upon this world and to our last. That each and every one of us exists for a reason and a reason only, and that upon accomplishing that reason, death follows swiftly for our work here is done.

Maybe some of us wonder what happens to those written words on our foreheads, do they wither and die like the petals of roses in the autumn? Do they vanish letter by letter ? Or maybe they simply remain, waiting to rot along with the skin.

But those are just that, sayings! There is no such thing.A man does not have only a purpose in life. A man's destiny is much more complicated, the Parcae's made sure of that.

Complicated and hard to grasp. Almost impossible for some, and for those who uncover it, sometimes it leaves behind a bitter taste.

Then there is something else that confutes this belief, that our destiny is decided for us before our birth, and it is the fact that it is in the moments of your decision when your destiny is molded. There are so many choises, spread before you by the Fates, that it is impossible to count them and know them all. And what is more important, is the fact that it ultimately falls to you to decide which path you may go.

You can not look too far ahead, and those who do are mistaken. The chain of destiny unravels itself one link at a time, and you are given the gift of measuring that it. If it shows signs of rust, you can throw it away and look for a new one.

**_CHAPTER I_**

_"O, from what power hast thou this powerful might[..]?"_

_Sonnet 150 –W. Shakespeare_

The kingdom of Camelot is, undoubtedly, one of the most prolific in the whole of Albion.

But it wasn't always so.

If one were to look back in time by almost the span of a man's lifetime, he would surely be flabbergasted. For one may say that even now, life in Camelot is haunted by the risk of getting caught in a duel between the King and its sworn enemy, a duel in which,most often than not, one may find himself a collateral victim. If one's lucky, he ends up with a limb – or two – missing, if not, well..let's just say one is no more.

If that sounds like a source of inspiration for the idea of wouldn't it be better if one were to pack up everything he owns , and say farewell to Camelot, then by the time he'd have glimpsed into the kingdom's past, he would wish he'd never heard of the place.

Camelot could barely have been called a kingdom at that time. What was once the peaceful city of Camelot, the city sired by the mighty sorcerer Cornelius Sigan and King Constance, was now mired in chaos and disaster.

After the events which have concluded in Sigan's execution, things had slowly started to fall apart. In fact, the ones that are still ancient enough to remember, claim that Sigan's execution was,really, what started everything in the first place. How could it not, when the court and the people had watched the King deal a horrible death by fire to his trusted Court Sorcerer and friend? When such figures of authority behave in such a manner, betraying sworn loyalty and trust, it is no surprise that everyone else, weak enough of heart, is bound to follow soon.

It remains unknown really what precipitated the King's actions. Gossip at the time claimed that the sorcerer might have made dulcet eyes at the King's consort, others thought that Sigan may had began dabbling with dark magic, others sided with the latter, claiming that the King had lost his mind. Cornelius had been, indeed, powerful enough and growing still more powerful – he had to have been, seeing as he had built the wonderful castle from scratch, polishing the white marbles with invisible strokes of magic until they shone like the facets of a diamond – so maybe it was only fear, in the end, that put everything in motion.

His sworn revenge, right before the pyre had been lit, lingered in not only the people's, but the King's nightmares as well, for a long while after.

And a year after his execution, the King had succumbed to a grave illness. Maybe an illness of the heart, maybe something to do with guilt?

Everyone knows that a kingdom without a king, is a kingdom lost. The late King had passed it on to his consort, the Lady Lydia, but she, in turn, lost it at the hands and whims of the arrogant lords. In the end, she ran away with a young knight and the lords proclaimed themselves Dukes and Barons and any other kinds of titles they could think of.

They butchered each other up in a true display of treachery and dishonor, to the point that it wasn't a shock anymore, at a dinner or feast, to see a lord simply drop forward to sleep the eternal sleep with his face securely planted in his plate.

Bandits roamed the forests of Camelot, they trampled and killed, stealing everything, from a ring on a poor old woman's finger, to a knight's sword and horse – after they'd disposed of him, of course. At night, their raucous laughter, crude language and bawdy songs could be heard almost all the way to the city, while the smoke from their fires on which they roasted whatever poor unfortunate creature they hunted – or stolen from someone – that day, spread in the air, poisoning everything even further.

The good people of what had once been Camelot had slowly began to lose their faith that everything will settle down. It wasn't hard to, seeing as they were dying left and right, from illnesses or injuries, or simply killed in cold blood by so-called nobles because of sorcery or imagined thefts.

But further away from all the disaster, to the westernmost south-west of Albion, by the clashing of waves on the cliffsides of the citadel of Cornwall, a young determined noble was rising slowly, but surely.

On his deathbed, prince Constantine, brother of the late King Constance of Camelot, had croaked his last words to his only son: _You shall forge a new crown for yourself, encrusted with justice and mercy._

So the young princeling took off with a handful of knights, roaming the other kingdoms of Albion to recruit more men and build his army. The kingdoms wouldn't have been so gracious, providing this unheard of, crownless prince, with weapons, shelter and men, had they not been exasperated by the happenings in Camelot and the growing danger of the ruined kingdom.

Because of King's Constance actions, magic was wary to aid the prince in his quest of conquering Camelot, for Cornelius Sigan had been respected and revered for his power. Some even believed him to be Emrys. Others knew better. Some joined the arms, others refused and the prince promised them that he understood their reasons, despite his disappointment.

Sooner than later, the growing army encountered a horde of bandits in a forest in the Kingdom of Northumberland. Needless to say, the bandits proved no match for the mighty army, and the sqirmish ended with no significant loses on the prince's army's part. They even managed to save the prisoners, and the fates smiled upon them as amongst those prisoners were a few of great importance.

So that was how the Prince became a friend to some of the most respected men in all the five kingdoms,namely, the Dragonlords.

The day his army stepped into Camelot is still sang of, reverently by bards and minstrels. Those ancient enough to remember swear up and down that the Sun had shone more brightly than they'd ever seen in their entire life, but then again, it might have only been its rays, reflected back on the scales of the numerous dragons which had studded the skies above the castke.

The battle which had followed had been swift, bloody and, coassionaly, fiery, curtesy of the magnificent dragons. There had been loses on both parts, bodies had littered the woods – the bandits – bodies had littered the streets of the citadel and the inner courtyard, finally, bodies had littered the very corridors of the palace.

During the battle, the remaining people of Camelot, as well as the palace staff had stayed out of way, barricaded in their creaky huts, frightened eyes peering out through the clothes which covered their small windows.

But right after the battle, they found their courage and, upon witnessing that the men didn't hurt them, they crossed their thresholds and helped the wounded.

Chaos still reigned at least a couple of months after the battle, due to the nuisance of gathering all the bodies and disposing of them properly, of the nobles which kept arriving from Cornwall, as well as some of the families of the knights that the Prince had recruited from all over the five kingdoms, not to mention the frustrating process of beginning to write the first new regulations by the soon-to-be king and his nobles and scribes.

Almost a year later, under the fresh rays of the sun on a spring morning, under the awe filled eyes of the people of Camelot, peasants and nobles alike, and the golden, peaceful gaze of the dragons circling overhead, the Prince was crowned King.

_"I, Uther Pendragon, son of Prince Constantine, nephew of King Constance and friend of the dragons, swear upon my crown to uphold Camelot's rules and reign with justice, honor and mercy, for the benefit of all."_

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The minstrels never miss the chance to tell this story - of course, tweaked in some places - at every grand feast, managing to enchant the whole court everytime. Even the King himself would take a sip of wine from his goblet and proudly lean back in his chair to listen, face revealing no emotion, save for a tightening around the eyes at certain places in the story. Neither the King, nor the courtiers have ever seen the frown which deepens more and more on the Prince's forehead, each time he hears the story anew.

The people of Camelot are once again proud of their kingdom and of their King. The kingdom of Camelot is even greater than in the time of King Constance and Cornelius Sigan. Greater than ever.

Or that is what the minstrels say, anyway. King Uther smiles at the end, everytime, and the Prince does as well, but there's a speck of uncertainty, hidden in the crooked corner of his lips.


End file.
